


Crabs for Coin

by BlueCyanight



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crabbos, I Haven't Written a Fanfic in Years, Please Critique Me, Writing Exercise, Yes I'm a Souls Fan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 11:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCyanight/pseuds/BlueCyanight
Summary: A brief, stupid contract involving a drunk wizard, three elf sisters, and crabs. Cursed, magical crabs. Poor sweet Geralt.





	Crabs for Coin

Geralt sighed heavily and nursed a tankard of Novigrad’s shittiest. By the sound of the notice, this was a contract only completable while black-out drunk.

_“In search of a Witcher without fear of crabs! Inquire after 9 Lives Sebby at the Nowhere Inn.”_

That was it. At least he was at the Nowhere, where his likely imminent embarrassment would not be witnessed by the finer members of society, or, more importantly, his friends. Dandelion was sure to write a ballad about it: the famous White Wolf, slayer of crabs in the name of financing mastercrafted armor.  
He had asked after 9 Lives Sebby as instructed. “‘E’ll come in ‘bout noon.” She’d said, a knowing look in her eyes, and he waited. Sure enough, noon came around, marked by a commotion reeking of booze and sounding like a cocatrice mid coitus, and the man of the hour arrived. He appeared to be a sorcerer, albeit a dishevelled one in the ridiculous pointed hat of stories, crumpled and stained. Geralt stood. Too late to go back now.

“Yousha wisher, rrigh?”

“That’s me.”

“Shh-ssit.” The sorcerer motioned at a nearby chair. Geralt did not oblige. “III’m Shebby, Nine liveshh, but I’m mosht likelly douun to three. Lossht mosht recent life to crabbss, crabsh like I never sheen.” Sebby let out a small hiccup before continuing, “Big crabsh by the water, jumped out an’... an’ ashed me for shome crownss for theh Widowsh' an’ Orphan’s Fund, shed no an’ they shpat water at me, knocked me overr shayin’ shomthin’ ‘bout shome elven shistersh.”  
Geralt sighed, a perfect veneer of professionalism on his face. “Got any proof? Where’d this happen?”

“Shomewere along the canal, wash on my way to tha docksh.”

“Anything else?”

“Shishtersh, elven shishters.”

“Wonderful, my pay?”

“Threehun’red crownsh.” Sebby hiccuped again.

Geralt left the Nowhere behind him, gladly, and began a slow walk towards Crippled Kate’s, the implied location of the attack. Giant talking crabs, in all Geralt’s time as a witcher, and in all the bestiaries he’d read, he had never heard of giant talking crabs. He reached the fish market uneventfully, merchants hawking their wares and the smell of the morning’s fresh catch in the sun assaulting his senses. At least it wasn't the Zeugel. For all his complaints, he could safely say it wasn’t as bad as the Zeugel.  
Geralt crossed the canal and began his examination of the area, pupils twitching and dilating as he focused his senses looking for tracks. What did exactly did crab tracks look like? He’d seen crabs, but hadn’t really focused on them, usually if he was on a beach he was searching for drowners, water hags, or sirens. He was broken from his reverie by the distinctive smell of vomit, alas, it was all he found besides the definitely human tracks of beggars and drunkards. Geralt grimaced as he contemplated the next step in his investigation: the canal bed.

Reeking of refuse and with a distinctive oily sheen, Novigrad’s waters reeked. And reeked was the polite term. With little else to do, Geralt waded in, dunking his head beneath the surface at the last minute and forcing his eyes open. Bones, bits of wood, human remains, little had changed since last he searched the bottom for a little package for Triss. His hair drifted in the foul water, his eyes stung, but it was worth it. Still in the silt, massive gouges and holes remained, whatever had left them had eight heavy legs. Giant was an understatement. The tracks led out towards the dock, and he followed them as long as he could before they continued out into the deep.  
Sputtering and on the receiving end of incredulous looks and more than a few double takes, Geralt surfaced. it was time to search for the elven sisters. Kate’s seemed as good a place to start as any, then the Chameleon for a bath if nothing else. Geralt arrived at Kate’s smelling in a way not even a whore could love, luckily for the aforementioned whores, Geralt was here on business. The madam cleared her throat, trying to avoid gagging.

“Another round of gwent witcher? Not letting you anywhere near the girls like that.”

“Not here for the girls, looking for some elven sisters.”

“Said you weren’t here for the girls.”

“It’s business, contract related.”

“Might know some elven girls. Triplets, finish each other's sentences.”

“Know where I can find them?”

“No idea. Arrived recently, just last week.”

“Thanks.” Geralt turned. Not as helpful as he’d hoped, but there was one person guaranteed to know where to find elven triplets. His favorite damsel in distress, Dandelion. For once Geralt was given a wide berth as he walked towards the Chameleon. That, at least, made his situation a bit more tolerable. He was sobering up however, that, was not.

“Geralt ye blighter! I’d hug ye but..” Zoltan wrinkled his nose. “Pah, I’ll hug ye anyway.” And the dwarf did.

“Easy Zoltan, here on business.”

“Business? Still after that armor then aye.”

“Exactly, need to talk to Dandelion.”

“Cheeky blighter’s in the back, hidin’ those parts of his ledger from Priscilla.” Geralt entered. If the atmosphere inside was any less electric half the patronage would have left. Geralt really did need a bath.

“Dandelion?”

“Geraaalt! Good to see you again!” Dandelion plastered his face with a grin, quickly shoving a large book behind his back.

“Dandelion... anything going on that Priscilla should know?”

“What? Geralt, Priscilla and I are... well... are...”

“Dandelion. I’m here about elves. Elven triplets specifically.”

“Oh, Geralt, you came to the right place.” Dandelion immediately turned, completely forgetting about hiding his book of debauchery. “There, Saana, Iorna, and Velka. Living by the Cats.”

“Thanks.” Geralt turned to leave.

“Geralt? Just, one thing. Please, take a bath. You smell like the canal.”

Geralt obliged.

Smelling like roses, and ever so slightly of skunk, Geralt left through the southern gate. He should have topped up his buzz at the Chameleon.

Then, while giving the notice board in front of the Cats a cursory glance for a contract less silly, he found himself surrounded by the sisters in question. They were perfectly identical, at least at first, raven, shoulder length hair with perfectly neat bangs shadowing identical staring hazel eyes.

"You're the witcher."

"The one been askin' 'bout us."

"A real shame, that."

The witcher's head spun, a right hand on his shoulder. Their voices sounded the same, they even dressed the same.

"I'm Saana."

"I'm Iorna."

"I'm Velka." At least they seemed to speak in a reliable order, one after the other. Gods, even their _teeth_ were identical.

"'Ere about them crabs then."

"The crabs! Good one that was."

"Please, you'll make me blush." They all lifted their left hands to cover a delicate titter.

"Right, I've been hired to get rid of them. Crabs usually don't talk, you have something to do with that?" Geralt crossed his arms looking at the one he assumed was Velka, the last one.

"I like them better as crabs."

"It's a vast improvement."

"It was self defense!"

"What? You three managed a polymorphy curse without destroying their minds?"

"The power of three!"

"Something like that."

"Don't ask us to undo it."

"Really no way to lift it? And why was it asking about the Widows' and Orphan's Fund?"

"Oh, that."

"When we first got here, ran into some real stingy bastards."

"Said they were collecting for the Widows' and Orphan's Fund." Geralt lifted an eyebrow.

"Liars."

"Greedy guts."

"Had to be punished."

"Told 'em it was for bein' so greedy."

"Said they'd be cured by givin' as much as they'd stolen."

"Now we're the liars." They giggled again in absolute solidarity.

"Can you give me the exact words of the curse?"

"Oi, greedy guts, may a widow find the strength ta peg ya..."

"An' all yer gran' babies be little crabby shites..."

"Arse fuckers!" Geralt thanked his mutations for stripping him of the ability to blush. Zoltan would love the triplets.

"Any idea where exactly these greedy crabs are? Did you even mean to turn them into crabs?"

"No clue."

"Not really."

"Just wanted to curse 'em." Geralt had a feeling this was all he'd get from them.

"Thanks. I'll deal with the crabs somehow."

"Good luck."

"You'll need it."

"Bloody huge crabs, witcher." They giggled and said their last sentence in unison,

"Bet he's had plenty experience with the itty bitty ones!" Geralt paused, indeed remembering an infestation of the little ones. Black blood worked wonders on lice of all... varieties. Geralt returned to the Chameleon, unless he could figure out how to lure the crabs onto land, he had a letter to write.

 _Dear Yennefer,_ it began clumsily.

 _I humbly ask your assistance in lifting a curse..._ Oh yes, he put emphasis on 'humbly' in his best chicken scratch. _cast by elven triplets turning their victims into giant talking crabs. The words are as follows:_ He was dreading this part.  _"Oi, greedy guts, may a widow find the strength ta peg ya, an' all yer gran' babies be crabby little shites, arse fuckers." They aren't sorceresses, said something about the power of three, and the crabs are convinced that donating to the Widows' and Orphan's Fund will lift it. I don't know if their minds will deteriorate but if I can't fix them I'll probably have to kill them. - Geralt._

Geralt sighed and decided to pen one to Triss while he was at it. He gave them to the courier for delivery. Triss was in Kovir, but Yen... He had no idea where Yen was, and with the church of the eternal fire burning books in the streets he doubted he'd be able to find any books on polymorphy and curses. He sighed and contemplated a way to lure out the crabs. Patrolling diligently while performing his best impression of a drunk to lure out the crabs in the early hours of the morning. A day passed. Then two. Then a week, and still no progress, until one fateful morning near the fish market.

The water surged and boiled, vast grey shell breaching the canal and clicking foamy mouthpieces at eye height, claws snapping.

"Got any crowns for the Widows' and Orphan's Fund sir?" Geralt's jaw dropped. Some part of him had clung to the belief that it really was just a drunken hallucination on the part of the sorcerer, but here he was, being talked at by a giant crab. "Sir? Can you spare a few crowns?" Geralt's jaw snapped shut.

"Uh, sure, willing to trade them for a talk."

The crab somehow managed to click mournfully. "I'm a giant crab sir, what would that solve?"

"I'm a witcher, got experience lifting curses."

"And? The only way I can lift this one is by donating to the Widow's and Orphan's Fund. There were three of us, Marcell's mind didn't do as well as mine." The crab managed to push out the distorted words somehow, did crabs even have vocal chords?

"Talked to those elven triplets, said they lied about that. Best bet is a transfer or a reversal, prefer not to do the latter." The crab clicked... thoughtfully? "Gonna need all three of you though."

"Ohh, that will not happen. Marcell's gone completely mad, and Bertholt up 'n died sir, didn't survive it."

Geralt groaned. "Gonna have to lure Marcell somehow, and what happened to Bertholt's body?"

"Hid it to keep Marcell from eating it."

"Gonna need it, or a part of it at least."

"I'll bring it, tomorrow night, same time... and... thank you sir witcher. Might I ask your name?"

"Geralt."

"Thank you Geralt, my name is Frans." With that the crab disappeared, vast shadow scuttling smoothly along the canal. Geralt needed mirrors. Mirrors big enough for three giant crabs, not to mention getting them all on dry land, and enough sandalwood candles to smother an infant with the smell alone. He returned to the Chameleon for a few hours rest.

The next day dawned, infuriatingly bright and all together too loud. He was going shopping. He found the candles easily enough, but the mirrors were a different story.

"Geralt of Rivia! How may I help you?" The merchant bowed low. Was he familiar?

"Need some big mirrors, don't need to be pretty, gotta be able to move them though."

"Of course! Follow me please." The mirror merchant showed him around with saccharine attentiveness. At least there were some big mirrors. Geralt eventually made up his mind, opting to bring one at a time to the island he'd selected for the ritual. He grunted as he picked it up and maneuvered it gingerly through the streets towards the docks where he commandeered a small fishing boat to some protest, gently laying it down against the mast before settling himself at the tiller, wind ruffling the sails. Thankfully, the trip was uneventful, as were the next two, all three mirrors delivered safely and stood up, candles in place and waiting to be lit. Night couldn't come soon enough.

Frans the crab surfaced at the appointed time, although a bit too quickly, almost capsizing the boat Geralt still hadn't bothered to return. He dragged a second shadow behind him.

"Hello witcher."

"Frans. Willing to help me move that?"

Thankfully the crab didn't seem capable of exasperated sighs. "Where too?"

"Follow me." Geralt sailed back out towards the docks and under St. Gregory's Bridge until he reached a little island east of Temple Isle, Frans surfaced again, dragging the hideously bloated half transformed body of a crab-man he could only assume was Bertholt behind him. "Now we just need Marcell."

"I can get him here, when do you need him?"

"When he gets here, I'm ready to do this." Geralt dragged Betholt's body towards the middle of the island illustratively. Frans clicked at him then turned and disappeared. Geralt began to light the candles, then he took out his last ritual ingredient, one freshly caught that morning: a trio of very mundane crabs. He sat and waited, blade oiled, potions downed. About thirty minutes later the water boiled violently, bursting from it, a pair of crabs, claws snapping and mouthpieces dripping foam and spittle. He had no idea which one was Frans, but whichever one he was the giant crabs found themselves in the center of the circle of candles, mirrors centered on them. Geralt took a deep breath,

"The magic between you, trapped this night, between these mirrors, never see light." The crabs froze, it seemed to be working. "A curse was cast, the power of three, to put on another, take it from thee." The wind howled, waves crashed, and yet the crabs stood frozen, giant and mundane ones alike. Geralt repeated himself, again and again, voice reaching a fevered pitch in direct competition with nature, and crabs shrinking as the waves grew larger. The candles flared, lighting flashed, and in the shadowy thunder three formerly giant crabs found themselves to be men again, although one was still very much dead and bloated. But a shadow blocked out the next strike of thunder, candles extinguished by the roaring skies. It hissed angrily, none to happy with it's status as a ritual ingredient. The curse had been transferred with resounding success.

"Run dammit!" Geralt barked at the men, stance ready, silver blade in hand. And they ran, time slowing as a giant claw slammed down inches from his last minute roll, parrying or blocking the thing was useless. Geralt danced around it's legs, unable to hit them properly as the crab scuttled to face him, snapping and slamming, Geralt trying signs in the meantime. Axi, Yrden, and Igni? Innefective. He wasn't brave enough to test Quen. A candle rolled beneath his boot. A distraction, a delay in his reaction as that great knobby claw came down like the wrath of a god to smite a hole in Geralt's skull. He did his absolute damnedest not to close his eyes, focusing instead on it's foaming mouth. A chink in it's ugly plated armor. he cast Aard, desperate, knocking the claw away and sending him into a likely deadly riposte, silver sword stifling the rewarding spurt of blue-black blood from it's maw. It reeled, wrenching the sword from Geralt's grip but any hesitation would kill him. Another opening, he drew his steel blade, it would have to do as he charged the crab's newly exposed underside, sinking his blade into that chink he remembered from the shore crabs he'd enjoyed eating on so many occasions. It screamed as it fell, claws flailing unpredictably, striking the exhausted Geralt right between the eyes.

He awoke to another infuriatingly cheerful sunrise, and all he could do was laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all critiques and suggestions are welcome and very much encouraged, really, no matter how small I won't be able to fix it if I don't know about it.


End file.
